Now speak, and withhold nothing.”
So I spoke. I told him about Charlie Kelly, and about the bird Charlie kept being too coy to name. And I told him what Charlie had said about the risk of war—and about how Charlie had hung up on me and bugged out of his office.
“Ah, Mr. Kelly,” the spook said. “Matters become less murky.”
“Not to me, they don’t,” I told him.
“Although of low rank himself” (Charlie was several notches above me, but I let that go) “your Mr. Kelly is wellconnected politically,” Henry Legion said. “He is the close friend and familiar—I use the word almost in the thaumaturgical sense—of a Cabinet subminister whose name I prefer not to divulge but who, I think, is like to be the source of his, ah, sensitive information. That matter can be—and shall be—rectified, I assure you.”
I didn’t care for the way he said rectified. I wondered if the anonymous Cabinet subminister was about to have the fear of an angry God put into him… or if he’d have to suffer what they call an unfortunate accident. But that; for me, was a side issue. I said, “I told you what I know. Now you keep your end of the bargain.”
At that point, much too late, I wondered how I was supposed to make him keep the bargain if he didn’t feel like it, But he said, “Perhaps this conversation would be better continued face to face rather than through the ether. You are on the seventh floor of the Westwood Confederal Building, is that not correct?”
“That’s right,” I agreed.
“Hang up the phone, then. I shall see you shortly.”
I dutifully hung up. Sure enough, a couple of seconds later Henry Legion materialized in my office—or rather, the top half of him did: the floor cut him off at what would have been his belly button if spooks had belly buttons. The soundproofing in the Confederal Building is pretty good, but I heard the woman in the office right below me let out a starded squeal, so I presume Henry’s legs end popped into being just below her ceiling.
The spook peered down at himself. He looked mistily annoyed, then said, “A three-foot error on a crosscountry journey isn’t bad. It’s not as if I were material.” He sounded like someone trying to convince himself and not having much luck. He pulled himself up through the floor so his ectoplasmic wing-tips rested on the carpet.
It’s a good thing he’s not material, I thought. Two different sets of matter aren’t designed to occupy the same space at the same time. The likeliest result of that would have been one big bang.
Once he was all in the room with me, his dignity recovered in a hurry. He draped himself over a chair, gave me a nod, and said, “By my pride in my own wits, David Fisher, I shall tell you what I can. Ask your questions.”
His wits were still working pretty well, I noticed: if I didn’t come up with the right questions, I wouldn’t find out what I needed to know. Well, first things first—“Who’s trying to loll me?”
Henry Legion’s indistinct features distinctly frowned. “Without further information, I cannot answer that with any more assurance than you possess yourself. I realize it is of the essence to you, but I trust you will understand it is not my primary concern.”
“Yeah,” I said grudgingly. Understanding didn’t mean I had to like it I tried something else; “If there is. God forbid, a Third Sorcerous War, who’s going to be in it? And whose side will we be on?”
“God forbid indeed,” the spook said. “As for who would begin the fighting if war came, again I cannot say with any certainty. The Confederation’s place would depend on the patterns of other belligerents; as you may know, some of our alliance systems overlap others.”
“As a matter of fact, I do know that” I was getting angry.
“I also know that I gave you straight answers and you’re giving me the runaround. I don’t call that a fair exchange.” I didn’t know what I could do about that, unfortunately. If Henry Legion didn’t feel like answering questions, all he had to do was disappear and ignore my phone calls from then on out.
But he didn’t disappear. He held up a transparent but placating hand. Before he could say anything, Rose tapped on the door, then opened it and stuck her nose into my office.
“I’m sorry, Dave,” she said quickly. “I didn’t realize you had someone in here.” Then she got a good look at Henry Legion. Her eyes widened as she realized what sort of someone he was. But she dosed the door and went away anyhow.
Rose is a wonderful secretary.
“You were saying—” I prompted the spook.
“So I was,” Henry Legion agreed. “I do apologize for appearing evasive, but the matter is more complex than most mortals, even those in high places, fully grasp. The turmoil that has marked this century—and that may yet precipitate the Third Sorcerous War—has roots that go back hundreds of years. It is an outcome of a fundamental shift in the balance of Powers that occurred with and as a result of the European expansion which began half a millennium ago.” °I do follow you,” I said. “Remember where you are: this is the EPA. One of the things I’m working on that has nothing to do with the toxic spell dump case is whether the Chumash Indian Powers have gone extinct in the past few years.”
“This is a trivial example of the phenomenon to which I refer,” the spook said. Towers have been reduced and displaced and others magnified on a scale unseen since the diminution and near-destruction of the Greco-Roman pagan deities and the rise of Christianity. And that impacted only Europe, North Africa, and western Asia; this is worldwide in scope. To give you some notion of what I mean, consider that Sarganatas and Nebiros, the one brigadier—major, the other field-marshal and inspector—general of the JudeoChristian Descending Hierarchy, have for several centuries made their residence here in the Americas.”
“I grant that they’re wickeder than Huitzilopochtli, but are they any nastier?” I asked. The Aztecian war-god wasn’t evil in and of himself the way the demon princes were, but his proper food was blood. My stomach twisted when I thought about the flayed human skin in the potion Cuauhtemoc Hemandez had sold to Lupe Cordero.
But Henry Legion said, “That is not the point. The point is that Huitzilopochtli has been displaced, and naturally resents it. The same is true of most of the indigenous Powers of the Americas, of Polynesia, of Australia. The Muslim expansion through the Southern Isles has reduced the range of the Hindu Powers, who still have their enormous Indian belief base upon which to draw. Ukrainian and Spainish conquests, on the other hand, have cut into the sphere where jinni and ghouls and other Muslim Powers can roam at will.
And the horror that was Alemania two generations ago shows Christendom isn’t immune to theological disaster, either.”
“What you’re telling me is that the whole world is going to hell,” I said slowly. I wondered whether I was exaggerating for conversational effect or being perfectly literal.
“Central Intelligence prognostications put the probability of that outcome as less than ten percent in the next decade,”
Henry Legion said, his voice inhumanly calm. “A year ago, however, that same probability was assessed at less than three percent. Whether fully Judeo-Christian or not, Inspector Fisher, trouble is brewing beneath the orderly surface of our existence.”
Since I’d had the door closed all morning, my office was warm and rather stuffy. I shivered even so. “Okay,” I said.
“There’s trouble. What does it have to do with the Devonshire toxic spell dump?”
“As for a precise answer, I can only speculate,” Henry Legion replied. “But consider this: the spell residues stored at that site are the worst and most potent yet devised. If they are lealdng into the wider environment, they draw attention to the dump. That attention is liable to be extremely unwelcome if something undocumented but deadly is being disposed of at the Devonshire dump.”
All at once, I remembered the Nothing I’d seen walking the path from the dump entrance to Tony Sudalds’ office. I never had got around to asking him what that was. I hadn’t called him Tuesday, either—too many other t
hings going on.
“Have you any further questions?” Henry Legion asked.
“Yeah, I do,” I said. “Okay, you don’t know for sure which Powers or humans might touch off the Third Sorcerous War.
You must have suspects, though. Isn’t that what Central Intelligence is for—to be suspicious?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” the spook answered. “Suspects, you say? In order of probability, they are Persia, Azteda, the Ukraine, and India.”
That didn’t help me much. Some sort of Persian connection seemed the most likely cause of trouble at the Devonshire dump, too, at least judgtog by what had happened to Erasmus, while I couldn’t rule out the Aztecans, either, not with Huitzilopochtlism on the loose and the trail that had led me to poor soulless Jesus Cordero.
For that matter, I couldn’t rule out the Powers of India, either, which meant Loki and the other aerospace firms were still suspects. Along with the cow, Erasmus had been tormented by sorcerous serpents, and the Garuda Bird is a great foe of such.
Complications, complications… I remembered that other serpent I’d seen, the one in the Garden of virtuous reality who hadn’t had to crawl around on his belly. If the model for that serpent had behaved himself better, the world would be a more peaceful place today.
I said, “What you’re telling me is that you don’t know who’s trying to kill me or who wants to start the war, but you want to use me to help you find out”
“In essence, yes,” Henry Legion said. “Keeping you alive while the investigation proceeds would also be desirable,”
To me even more than to you,” I assured him. The situation reminded me of an old riddle: how do you know when there are pixies around? The answer is, when you get pixilated. I never had found that riddle very funny. It was a lot less so now, when it was more like finding out who was trying to IdB me by what happened when they did it Someone tapped on the door, then opened it Rose again.
She said quietly, “When I saw you hadan important guest, David, I arranged for my phone imp to cover yours. Here’s a message for you.” Nodding as politely to Henry Legion as if she couldn’t see through him, she went back outside again.
The spook said, “We here at Central Intelligence—and at other nations’ equivalent services, I assure you—are generally less than delighted when an amateur like yourself gets stuck between the lines of the cantrip, so to speak: not only because of the danger to which you are exposed but also on account of your unpredictability, which may set off other unpredictable acts at a juncture when unpredictable acts have the potential to bring on what may for all practical purposes be Armageddon.”
If Henry Legion had been a human being, he couldn’t possible have said all that on one breath. As it was, Charlie Kelly had in essence told me the same thing. But Charlie had bugged out on me, while the CI spook was still on my side—I hoped.
“What do you suggest I do next?” I asked him.
“Cany on with your life and work as normally as you can,” he answered. “If fate is kind-always an interesting question—you will eventually be able to work your way out of the center of interest you now occupy.”
“And if fate isn’t?” I said. A human being, even one who worked for Central Intelligence, probably would have given me a soothing answer back. Henry Legion didn’t. “If fate is unload, Inspector Fisher, you will be killed. If fate is very unkind, the world will go with you. As I said before, the balance of Powers has been upset for a long time. Megasalamanders may be the least we have to worry about”
That much pessimism rocked me. “But a megasalamander can slag a whole city—” I felt absurd the second the words were out of my mouth. Was I bragging of how destructive our ultimate weapons were or complaining they weren’t destructive enough?
“Yes, Inspector Legion, but although megasalamanders are of the Other Side, the devastation they create is confined to the material,” Henry Legion said implacably. “Further, they do not launch themselves, but travel when and were ordered by the mages who control them. If the Powers seek to redress the balance on their own—”
He dematerialized then, leaving me an empty office and cold dread in my middle. That’s the trouble about arguing with a spook: if he wants it, he can have the last word.
This time, though, I think he would have had it even if he’d stayed around.
I thought about what he’d just said. Suppose all the Powers that had seen their domains shrink over the past five hundred years or so got together and struck back at the Ones that had dispossessed them. A man mad for revenge is liable to take it no matter what ft costs him and those he loves. If the Powers acted the same way, then heaven help the people over a big part of the globe… except it would more likely be hell on earth.
No wonder Henry Legion couldn’t work up much concern about whether I individually lived or died. In a way, it didn’t seem that important to me any more, either. But only in a way.
I stared down at my desk, trying to get back from contemplating Armageddon to doing my job. My eye fell on the note Rose had come in to give me. The message, I saw, was from Legate Kawaguchi. It said, in its entirety, “The feather is from a specimen of PHAROMACHRUS MOCINNO.” It was written just like that; Rose had printed the formal name in block capitals so I couldn’t possible misread it Undoubtedly she’d had Kawaguchi give it to her letter by letter so she wouldn’t get it wrong, too. Rose is a queen among secretaries.
Only one trouble: I hadn’t the slightest notion what a Pharomachrus mocinno was. I called Kawaguchi back, but I didn’t get him. He’d gone into the field—something horrible and gruesome had just broken. The centurion who took my call sounded so harassed that I didn’t have the nerve to ask him whether he knew what land of bird Kawaguchi had meant I went and checked our own reference library: not all environmental issues involve the Other Side. We had books about birds that dwell in the Barony of Angels. Pharomachrus mocinno wasn’t one. A little information, but not much. I made a mental note to ask Kawaguchi about it the next time I talked with him, then went back to work.
A good rule I’ve developed and don’t follow enough is when in doubt, make a list. Writing things down forces you to think about what’s important to you. It works so well, it’s almost magic. The first writing, I suspect, really was magic—vaasfc against forgetting. It still serves that role if you give it half a chance.
So I wrote. When I was done, the top of the list looked like this:
® Checking around the Devonshire toxic spell dump.
@ Bakhtiar’s Precision Burins.
@ The Chumash Powers.
® Importing leprechauns.
® Chocolate Weasel.
Everything below ®, I figured, could wait. Most of the bottom of the list was day-to-day stuff where it didn’t really matter whether the day was today, tomorrow, or next Tuesday. Some of the other items, like what had caused Jesus Cordero to be born apsychic, were important in and of themselves, but were also linked to high-priority items.
I also noticed I didn’t really have five items up at the top: I had two. Getting to Bakhtiar’s Precision Burins and Chocolate Weasel sprang from trying to get to the bottom of what was going on at the Devonshire dump, and of course the Chumash Powers study and the one on leprechauns were almost incestuously intertwined.
Armed with my list, I did go up front to see Bea. I wanted to get her approval on it so I could cany on with a clear conscience and without having to worry about unexpected thunderbolts from her. Rose waved me through into her sanctum; for a wonder, Bea wasn’t on the phone and she didn’t have anybody in there with her.
“Good morning, David,” she said. One eyebrow went up.
“I hear you’ve been spending time with some high-powered company. I’m very impressed.”
I wasn’t surprised Rose had told her, a secretary is supposed to keep a division head informed about what people are doing. And besides, even a queen of secretaries is entitled to a little gossip.
But if Bea knew about Henry, I c
ould take advantage of it even though I wished I’d never met the CI spook. I said,
“The Devonshire dump case seems to be turning into a national security affair. That’s why I’ve put it at the top of my to-do list.” I shoved the parchmentacross the desk at her.
She looked at it, she looked at me, she shook her head slowly back and forth a couple of times. In that church-choir voice of hers, she said, “David, why do I get the feeling the main reason you’re showing me this list is to get my approval in advance for what you intend to do anyway?”
With some bosses, wide-eyed innocence would have been the best approach: Me? I can’t wtagfne what you’re talking about. Try that with Bea and she’d rap your knuckles with a ruler, maybe metaphorically, maybe not. I said, “You’re right. But I really think these are the things that need doing. I’ll handle as much of the rest of the stuff as I can, but I’m not going to worry if I get behind on it while I’m settling the big things.” If I’d had to, I’d have told her about Charlie Kelly then. That would have shown her I wasn’t taking the spell dump case too seriously.
But she looked at me again, nodded as slowly as she’d shaken her head before. “David, part of being a good manager is giving your people their heads and letting them run with their projects. I’m going to do that with you now. But another part of being a good manager is letting people know you’re not here to be taken advantage of.”
“I understand,” I said. And I did: if these cases turned out to be inconsequential, or if they were important and I botched them, she’d rack me for it. That was firm, but it was fair. Bea is a good manager, even if I do hate staff meetings.
“All right, David,” she said with a faint sigh. “Thank you.”
Rose gave me a curious look as I emerged from Bea’s office. I flashed a thumbs-up, then waggled it a little to show I wasn’t sure everything would fly on angels’ wings. She made silent clapping motions to congratulate me. “Oh, David, what was mat bird the constabulary legate called you about?” she asked.
The Case of the Toxic Spell Dump Page 24